Knightfall
by d'Erlon
Summary: Medieval AU, When the Kingdom of Atlas is betrayed by a cabal of nobles and invaded by the brutal forces of the Dark Empress of the Grimm they call upon their old ally, the Kingdom of Vale for help. Vale's answer is an army of knights dedicated winning back the Kingdom. Though for one knight the war is more than just a mission, its a chance to redeem the mistakes of a his past.


**Author's Note: So, this is my first story on the site so be gentle please! In all honesty this started as a Song of Ice and Fire fic but I thought it worked better with the wonderful characters of RWBY. Some of the characters are going to be a little OOC, but eh if its not different from canon then what's the point? I hope you enjoy this little attempt at writing.**

 **It goes without saying, but I do not own RWBY or any of the characters, those are the property of the original creators.**

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Horses stamped and whinnied, breath steaming and curling in the cold morning air; a light dusting of snow covered the ground, the first snows of Fall heralding the oncoming Winter, and plate clanked and jangled as armored knights moved slowly through the early dawn gloom. The city walls of Argus were just visible in the distance, their battlements emerging from the fog like a long row of stone teeth. The only other sounds were the whisper of the wind through the trees and a low hum of voices as the knights exchanged quiet conversation or muttered prayers to whatever god would listen that they would see the end of the day. One could almost feel the tension in the air, men simultaneously nervous about what was about to happen and eager to simply be about it already.

The murmuring began to quiet as movement rippled through the center of the formation, a party of horsemen bearing banners was moving to the fore.

From his position in the second rank of knights, Sir Jaune Arc watched the grey and green banner of Vale move forward, its crossed axes blowing in the breeze. Feeling the tension mount in his gut he turned to his young squire, waiting patiently with the reins of both their horses. "It seems to be time Oscar, you'd best be mounting up lad." The dark-haired youth nodded jerkily, handing up Jaune's reins as well as the 7-foot oak lance, which Jaune accepted gratefully. Oscar then turned to his own horse, planting a foot in the stirrup and swinging up into the saddle, his lighter armor giving him greater freedom of movement.

The boy's nerves were practically palpable and Jaune felt a rush of concern. Oscar was barely 15, older than Jaune had been in his first fight perhaps, but still almost shockingly young for what was about to happen. Jaune could still remember the first time he'd heard the clash of true combat, the clang of steel and the cries of dying men and he remembered that fear. And that fight had hardly been on the scale of this one. Shifting his lance into the same hand as his shield Jaune leaned over to clap a hand on Oscar's armored shoulder

"Steady Oscar, you have a stout heart and courage to spare, stick with me, have faith in your arm, your steel, and your gods and know that I believe in you. You will survive this day."

The nervous look on Oscar's face cleared somewhat, though he still looked troubled. "It is alright to be afraid, you must face your fear and overcome it. Use it to focus and keep yourself alive. Do you understand?" Oscar nodded again, steadily this time, and met Jaune's eyes.

"I understand my lord." Said Oscar.

With that Jaune released him and straightened up in the saddle, turning toward the center of the line where the party and the banners had stopped. Jaune watched as their commander, the aging but powerful Sir Peter Port, Earl of Hunterscrest urged his mount around in order to address the assembled knights.

"Men of Vale, I do not need to tell you what is at stake here today. Our friends and allies from Atlas have been attacked, betrayed by bad faith, driven from their homes and lands. They have seen families torn apart, loved ones murdered, and their lives ripped asunder."

A low growl was beginning to grow among the Valean knights, as the litany of their enemy's misdeeds was read out. "The crimes committed against the Kingdom and people of Atlas are so great that even if they were not our old friends, even if the ties of blood and fellowship did not bind us together, we would have been compelled to act, for true honor would demand no less"

The Earl paused for effect, letting the tension build, "And act we shall. The enemy waits for us, a bare stone's throw away, and we shall have our accounting of him. Never doubt men, that your actions here today will be remembered for the ages. No man who takes the field with me today shall ever have cause to let his head hang when tales of courage and great deeds are exchanged. For he shall be able to say that he was here on this day!"

At that, a cheer went up from the assembly of knights, which Jaune joined full-throatedly. Whatever his other faults and qualities, it could never be said of Peter Port that he was lacking for an inspirational word.

Even as the Valeans' cheers were fading, a new cheer began to spring up from the Atlesian troops to their right, as a second set of riders approached the center. Rather than the inarticulate roar of the Valeans', here distinct words could be picked out through the chant. "Atlas," "Schnee," and "The Princesses," were all present; although the last came to dominate. The party moving along the line consisted of three riders. The leader was a knight in shining plate, with a flowing white mantle cascading over his shoulders. Above his head he hoisted a banner of white silk, upon which a golden design was embroidered. From his angle Jaune was unable to make out the sigil, but he knew it anyway. The crystal snowflake of house Schnee. Despite the striking banner, it was the following pair of riders which drew the most attention. The steeds were massive, snow white beasts, whose own armor shown almost as magnificently as the gleaming white plate worn by their riders. Those armored figures both struck the eye slightly oddly, for despite the bulk of the armor each seemed to be slighter than they should. Until that is one's eye fell on their faces. For neither rider wore a helm, and instead let their lengths of snow white hair fall free, framing elegant and beautiful aristocratic faces, with features that could be described as delicate, if you failed to see the cold fire which burned in the ice blue eyes. No man in this host could have possibly failed to recognize them, Jaune least of all.

Winter and Weiss Schnee, the warrior princesses of Atlas, who had survived their brother's betrayal of the family, the rebellion of a third of their own nobles, and the invasion of their kingdom by a foreign power, in order to rally their loyal followers and lead a determined resistance to reclaim their birthrights.

Weiss… Jaune thought and felt his stomach clench as she rode past. He could scarcely believe that it had been ten years. When they had last seen one-another they had both been 16, barely on the edge of adulthood. She was still just as beautiful as he remembered, though even from a distance he could see a pain in her eyes that had never been there before. Tragedy, betrayal, and war had left their mark. As they had on him.

When the two parties of standard bearers met in the center of the line Jaune saw Sir Peter gesture to a squire, who drew a horn up to his lips. Now the final moment. Everything seemed to stop. The last wisps of fog were burning away, and the only sound was the flapping of the battle standards. Then a single long loud blast echoed across the field.

Jaune reached up and slammed the visor of his helm closed, then firmly brought the spurs to his horse. All around him the Valean knights did the same, spurring their horses to a gentle walk. the mass of horseflesh and steel began to move, slowly at first, then steadily faster as the horses transitioned to a trot, then a canter. They had over, 500 yards to cover and they were well over halfway across the open ground and the rebel troops were still racing to take up defensive positions. At 100 yards the horses had entered a gallop and the first crossbow bolts began to zip past Jaune's head. Some of those bolts hit home in knights or their horses, opening holes in the line, however it was too little too late to stop the charge.

Barely ten yards from the rebel troops, Jaune shifted his lance, dropping it down to the level and crouching it perfectly. All around him his comrades did the same, with a precision that would have brought a tear to the eye of the finest clockmaker.

The last seconds passed in a blink, the air filled with the rumbling rhythm of horse hooves. Jaune had some idea how terrifying a spectacle the Valean army must make to the infantry on the other side. 2000 heavy horse bearing down upon them, the noise was horrific, and they could feel the vibrations of the impacts of the hooves literally shaking the ground. It was hardly surprising that the rebels began to break.

Formed infantry, unshaken and well lead could defeat a cavalry charge. This infantry was not formed; they had been shaken from their beds before dawn by the horns of an army which they had not even known was there, their leaders had squabbled over how best to meet that army and had given no clear instructions. So, they began to break, just in time for the hammer blow of the cream of Valean chivalry to crash home.

The impact hit Jaune like a thunderclap, his lance head driving home into a dismounted man-at-arms, the combined weight of Jaune, his armor, and his horse punching the blade straight through the man's mail. The force went rippling up the stout oak shaft and it shattered like a dry twig in a shower of sparks. Jaune released the now useless lance and spurred his horse. He shook as his destrier trampled another foot soldier into the mud, he kept his saddle and drew Crocea Mors from its sheath and cut through the throat of a third man, then he was through the rebel line. He hauled on the reins, and wheeled around to the left, angling himself towards the gate through the city wall. He dug in his spurs and raced forward, sensing more than seeing the knights to his right and left as well as Oscar behind.

The area between the rebel line and the gate was packed with stampeding troops, noblemen on horseback trying to restore some order in their retainers, and riderless horses running uncontrollably. Jaune and his comrades cut through any soldiers who opposed them and ignored those who simply ran. Out of the corner of one eye Jaune saw Sir Port and the Schnee Princesses break through the center of the rebel line on the roadway.

The knights Jaune lead mounted the roadbed ahead of the Princesses and broke through the last line of defense before the gateway. The city entrance yawned before them and they pressed on. Once through the gateway however the press of men became too much for speedy progress. Jaune found himself surrounded by a mass of bodies as the fleeing rebel troops from outside the walls and the oncoming Valean knights collided with a compact mass of troops blocking the street.

A blow reverberated off Jaune's shield even as he struck out at a spearman to his right. It was brutal, close quarters killing, that slowly pushed deeper into the city as more and more knights pushed through the gate. Jaune lost himself in the repetition of battle. Block, slash, parry, counter, move on. Jaune felt himself growing tired, his arms burning as sweat began to pool on his brow under his helm, despite the bitter cold.

The most crucial part of the battle plan had been to get inside the city, before the rebel army could stir into full readiness. That had been achieved, and almost a third of the whole rebel force had already been smashed outside the walls, and over a half dozen rebel nobles were already in chains. If the battle had stopped where it was it would already be a great victory, but the allied army had to press on. The enemy had to be crushed and Argus secured, or they would have nowhere to shelter when winter truly struck and locked Atlas in its icy grip.

The rebels knew the importance of the battle as well as anyone in the allied army and they fought tooth and nail, making the Atlesian loyalists and Valean knights pay for every bloody yard of the city. The main thoroughfare was a choking nightmare of violence as men and horses screamed and died, blood running in rivulets through the cobblestones.

The assault was bogging down as more and more rebel troops entered the fray. Crossbow bolts began to rain down into the packed street as archers took up positions in the houses and shops on either side, taking a fearsome toll on the attackers. Dismounted Valean knights and Atlesian men-at-arms hacked through the doors and windows of those buildings to get at the defenders and the fighting began to spill out into the side streets and alleys as troops from both sides fought to get around the flanks of the other.

In the center though the fighting remained deadlocked. Then a great shout went up from the loyalist troops as a knot of horsemen crashed through the rebel mass, punching deep into them and sending them reeling back.

Jaune was peripherally aware of the sudden surge to his left, though now his attention was focused by the rebel knight doing his best to claim his head. Only when he had dispatched his opponent with a thrust did he see the spearhead driving forward.

There were only five riders in that thrust, their white armor and billowing mantles identifying them for all to see, and the rebels collapsed on the Schnee royal guard and princess in a howl of animal fury. The rest of the loyalists tried to follow the Princess, but the swarm of rebel foot had cut of the hole, even as they were driven back, they kept the Princess and her guards isolated.

Standing above the pass of humanity the Schnee Princess fought at the head of her men. She struck out at the enemies on either side, smiting her foes like a warrior goddess of old. However, skill and courage were not enough. Her white mantled bodyguards were picked off one at a time, some fell to spears, while others were dragged from their mounts to face the knives and fury of the rebels' bellow, until the Princess stood, totally alone.

Jaune, like every soldier and knight in that blood-soaked vestibule of hell strove forward to reach the Princess, desperate to preserve Atlas' symbol of hope. As yet another swing of his sword brought down yet another foe, Juane found himself with no enemies in his front, except the men surrounding the Princess, unwilling to get within her striking range.

Pure surprise paralyzed Jaune for crucial moments, utterly shocked as he was, he hesitated for a fraction of a minute. But his instincts kicked in before his mind had the time to process, and his spurs goaded his mount once again to follow behind the Schnee princess. Because no matter how skilled, no matter how graceful, no matter how deadly, no human could survive for long surrounded like that.

Even as he raced forward, he knew he would likely be too late, and the deadly buzz and wet, meaty thud of a crossbow bolt drove that home.


End file.
